Ain't She Sweet (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Book 2) Read online

  Also by Whitney Dineen

  Romantic Comedies

  Love is a Battlefield

  The Event

  The Move

  The Plan

  The Dream

  Relatively Normal

  Relatively Sane

  Relatively Happy

  The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan

  Mimi Plus Two

  Kindred Spirits

  She Sins at Midnight

  Going Up?

  Non-Fiction Humor

  Motherhood, Martyrdom & Costco Runs

  Thrillers

  See No More

  Middle Reader Fiction

  Wilhelmina and the Willamette Wig Factory

  Who the Heck is Harvey Stingle?

  Children’s Books

  The Friendship Bench

  Ain’t She Sweet

  Whitney Dineen

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locales (except Oregon really is a state), and situations are the work of the author’s overactive imagination and the voices in her head. Any resemblance to people living or dead, events, etc., is purely coincidental. And I don’t mean maybe.

  Copyright © by Whitney Dineen in 2020; all right reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, scanned, photographed, or distributed in print or electronic form without express permission of the author. But let’s face it, if you love it, she’ll probably let you share small portions. You still have to contact her first.

  Made in the United States.

  December, 2020

  Ebook Edition ASIN: B08H9YTKHP

  ISBN: 9798567817292

  https://whitneydineen.com/newsletter/33 Partners Publishing

  Acknowledgments:

  So much love to my husband Jimmy, and my mom Libby, for their constant encouragement and support. Thank you to my girls Anna and Faith for the laughs and dance parties that get me through when things get crazy. Family is the best!

  Many thanks to Becky Monson for yet another fabulous cover. Girl, they just keep getting better and better.

  To my editor and proofreaders, Celia Kennedy, Paula Bothwell, and Melissa Amster, thank you for being honest, mean, encouraging, and literate. You gals make me look so good.

  So much gratitude to my author friends who support and encourage my career; you know who you are. I wouldn’t be anywhere without you.

  Heartfelt love to my attorney and Hollywood daddy, Scott Schwimer. With all the modeling, commercial, literary, and television agents I’ve had over the last three decades, you are the only one who has gone the distance with me. I’m afraid this means you’re a lifer.

  To my readers, you guys are the ones who make my dream gig possible and I heart you for being so awesome! I read every single one of your reviews, emails, and posts on Facebook. Thank you for being a part of my journey.

  This book is dedicated to everyone brave enough to make a change.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Excerpt: The Event

  Prologue

  My eighty-three-year-old yoga instructor, Rupa Babu always says that when your soul is conflicted and your mind is foggy, you need to drop to the ground and immediately execute an Ardha Matsyendrasansa, or half spinal twist. Hold it for twelve minutes and then start writing—I usually write lists. She promises enlightenment will flow through your fingers and your spine will be as supple as a newborn baby’s. I could only ever hold the pose for five minutes, but I still hoped for enlightenment.

  Things I Don’t Like About Modeling

  Being so hungry I start fantasizing about stealing a little girl’s ice cream cone and eating the whole thing before she can tell her mother. Not that I’ve ever done that, but there have been some close calls.

  Wearing clothes that I wouldn’t be caught dead in in real life. I cite the black jean mini skirt with an over-the-top ragged fringe hem that oddly dipped in the front making it look like I’d missed my last twenty waxing appointments.

  Waxing appointments.

  Jet lag.

  That German photographer, Helmet, who spits orders—as in literal spit flies out of his mouth, often hitting me. “Lächeln! Wende! Und nicht jetzt, diese schlampe geht nicht raus! Translation: “Smile! Move! And inexplicably, Not now, this bitch isn’t putting out!” I’m pretty sure something got lost in translation with this one.

  Things I Like About Modeling

  1.

  Yup, pretty sure it’s time for a change.

  Chapter One

  Gwen

  “Tara, it’s your Mother. I know you’d prefer I text and not leave voicemails, but this message is too long to type out, so listen up.

  “Romaine stopped by the house again yesterday. It’s the seventh time he’s done that since you’ve been in Oregon. While I was never a fan of you dating him, let alone getting engaged to him, I really do think he’s sorry about what happened.

  “That doesn’t mean I think you should tell him you’ve changed your last name and moved to the middle of nowhere to live a life of anonymity. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t need to ever talk to him again. But you should know I’m going to file a restraining order against him if he comes back.

  “Every single time he comes here he’s followed, and I’m sick to death of the paparazzi stomping through my birds-of-paradise in hopes of getting a picture of the two of you together. If it happens again, I’m going to take matters into my own hands.

  “While I’m not happy about you being there, I know it’s because you feel like you were robbed of a normal childhood, which is totally your own fault, by the way. I get that you need this break to find yourself. Just please hurry up so you can come home. I miss you.

  “Oh, that reporter from TMZ has called no fewer than a dozen times trying to get me to talk about the breakup. I’m surprised they haven’t tracked you dow
n yet. Be on your guard.

  “Call me back. I don’t want a random text; I want to talk to you. Love you.

  “Again, this is the woman who labored for seventy-two hours to bring you into this world. You’re welcome.”

  Tara

  When Pink Lady apples are in season, the first thing I think of is that bite of caramel apple clafoutis I had in Paris when I was sixteen. It changed my life. The slightly softened tart apple paired with the firm flan-like batter encasing it totally rocked my world. So much so, I started to fantasize that I was lying in the middle of a giant clafoutis and the only way to get out was to eat my way to the edge of the pan.

  The truth is, I spent my entire sixteen-year career dreaming of food. If my fairy godmother appeared Cinderella-style one day and gave me the choice to get on a time machine—pumpkin-shaped of course—to meet a young Hugh Grant, or eat a magical calorie-free banana split, I’d be all, “Hugh, who?” And I love vintage nineties rom coms, so that’s saying something.

  I shake off the memory and become transfixed as the butter and brown sugar melt together in the cast iron skillet on the stove. When it becomes a glorious amber color, it’s go time. I’m mesmerized as I pour the river of thick caramel over freshly cut apple slices. It’s like poetry in motion.

  “Tara, there you are!”

  Startled, I nearly fling my wooden spoon coated with the hot mixture across the room. I didn’t hear my boss walk into the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Cavanaugh, hello. What can I do for you?”

  “No more Mrs. Cavanaugh nonsense. Call me Ruby.”

  She leans in to see what I’m making, and as soon as a whiff of caramel and apple hits her nose, her eyes practically glaze over in anticipation. After releasing a groan of appreciation, she confesses, “I’ve gained four pounds since you started working here.”

  She doesn’t sound like she minds a bit. In fact, if she gained another ten, she’d only look healthier for it. On my first day, a member of the staff told me that Ruby had lost a considerable amount of weight after her husband died unexpectedly last year.

  “I’ve gained eighteen pounds since becoming a pastry chef,” I tell her rather proudly. I’m making up for lost time.

  “Honey,” Ruby takes my hand before shifting her gaze around the kitchen to make sure we’re not being overheard, “your secret is safe. Neither the boys nor I will spill the beans about who you are.”

  “I appreciate that,” I tell her sincerely.

  People are brilliant for only seeing what they expect to see. A little weight gain and darkening my hair has worked wonders for my ability to hide in plain sight. Before last month, no one even told me that I looked familiar, let alone guessed who I really am.

  “I was hoping you might be free later today to meet with the garden designer I hired. Geoffrey consulted with him last week, but I’d like you to do so as well.”

  “Just let me know when and where and I’ll make sure I’m available.” I wonder why Ruby is putting in a garden at the lodge instead of continuing to buy all her produce from her son, but I stop myself from asking. Gah! I can’t think of James Cavanaugh without wanting to throw something.

  That man was such a giant pain in my butt last summer. All I did was suggest he certify his farm organic and he freaked out on me. Yes, I know it’s expensive, but being able to advertise organic and sustainable produce would be a great boon for the Willamette Valley Lodge. I only had their best interest in mind. Of course, that was before I knew James was Ruby’s son. Once I discovered they were family, I couldn’t understand his reluctance. I may or may not have gone out of my way to fight with him every time I saw him after that.

  The next best thing will be having most of the produce we serve grown right here in our own garden. That’ll show James.

  “I want to put in some fruit trees and berry bushes as well. It’ll take a couple years before they produce much of anything, but that’s all the more reason to get them planted,” Ruby adds, still staring longingly at the caramelized apples.

  “I definitely have an opinion about those,” I tell her. “But as far as vegetables go, I’d like to have zucchini, carrots, and cabbage.”

  “Cabbage? What in the world would you use that for?”

  “Chocolate cake. It keeps the cake crazy moist while giving us the added bonus of advertising a healthier dessert option. I promise we’ll sell a ton of them.”

  “You’re the expert.” She’s quiet for a few beats before saying, “Listen, I know it’s going to be hard on your folks not having you home for Christmas. I was thinking you might want to invite them here.”

  “It’s only my mom, and I wouldn’t want her to come all this way just to leave her on her own while I’m at work.”

  “She could be my guest at the lodge. We have a ton of activities to keep her busy. Then you can spend time together when you’re off.”

  “I’ll ask her.” I’m pretty sure she’ll want to come. With my dad long ago remarried, my brother and I are all the family Mom has left.

  “Or she could come for Thanksgiving if she’d prefer. Just let me know soon, while we still have a few openings.”

  “That’s a very generous offer, thank you,” I answer as I realize how much I’d like for my mom to see my new life.

  “In the meantime,” she says, “is there anything else you need?”

  “Your kitchen is easily as well equipped as the one at Le Deux Langues,” I tell her while rolling out pie crusts for the Mile-High Apple Pie we have on the dessert menu.

  “That’s quite a compliment. How we stole you away from a Michelin-starred restaurant in Beverly Hills, I’ll never know.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Now that you know who I really am, I’m sure you can guess why I left.” I’m careful to roll the crusts quickly to not overwork the dough. The key to the perfect apple pie is a flaky crust that melts in your mouth.

  Ruby pats my arm like she’s reassuring a scared puppy. “I promise you’ll never regret coming here.”

  “I haven’t so far. In fact, for the first time in my adult life, I feel like I’m home.” The few months I’ve been here have been the longest I’ve stayed in one place since I started modeling at twelve; I always knew when the plane landed that I would soon be getting on another to travel somewhere else. Back then I used to think of Paris, New York, and LA in terms of being seasonal homes, but here in Spartan, I feel like it could be something more permanent. The thought excites and scares me at the same time.

  There’s something about the Willamette Valley that seems to make time stop. I feel like I’m living in the moment. The last time I felt remotely like this, I was skydiving for a Movado watch photoshoot. I could have floated through the clouds forever. That was, until I started to worry my chute wouldn’t open and then I may have peed my pants a little.

  “California’s loss is our gain.” Ruby pats my arm again before walking over to Geoffrey, our executive chef, and all-around good guy.

  I always got along well with the staff at Le Deux, but I was convinced they were only nice to me because I was somebody. I’m sure it didn’t hurt that I was engaged to Romaine Choate, the biggest rock star of our generation. Seriously, if Mick Jagger and Eddie Vedder had a baby, it could have been Romaine. He’s a powerhouse of energy, charisma, and talent.

  A lot of supermodels parlay their celebrity into pursuits that keep them in the spotlight long after the magazine covers and designer ad campaigns dry up. No one, including my fiancé, seemed to understand that I needed a change and wanted to do something I actually loved doing. Modeling had its time and place in my life, but that time is over.

  Romaine often pointed out that I didn’t need to worry about money, which is true. I built a very nice nest egg for myself over the years, which was primarily the result of skyrocketing to fame before I was of legal age. All of my money was invested for my future and has increased in value many times over.

  Romaine only rallied behind my decision to become a pastry chef when he
decided I could use my previous popularity to further success in a new venture, namely open a chain of bakeries and maybe get my own show on the Food Network, but that isn’t what I wanted to do.

  I wanted to see what it was like to be a normal person, work a normal job, live a normal life. When I started working at Le Deux Langues, Romaine would eat several meals a week there, hosting an assortment of our famous friends. Well, more his friends than mine. I haven’t heard a peep out of most of them since he and I broke up six months ago.

  With my rock star fiancé on site, the paparazzi were guaranteed to be there. This assured everyone who was anyone, or aspired to be someone, free publicity if they ate at Le Deux. There’s nothing like a spotlight to keep the Hollywood crowd foaming at the mouth and lining up to be seen.

  Each night after work I needed a shower to wash off more than the fine coating of sugar and flour that were a by-product of my job. The residue of desperate people chasing fame was not unlike the lingering effects of a skunk attack.

  The owners, Phillipe and Joselle, told me to hire another assistant so I could spend more time in the dining room with Romaine. I didn’t want to be a walking billboard for them, I wanted to be in the kitchen creating delicacies I hadn’t previously been able to do more than sample. Ones that I no longer feel any guilt consuming.

  Romaine and I were at odds for ages over my desire to hold down a full-time job. He wanted me on his arm posing for photo ops, and I wanted to never see another camera.

  One of our fights was captured on film and published by “Auntie Harlot,” the industry’s most viewed gossip blog. While the content of the article was highly speculative, the pictures pretty much said it all. There was trouble in paradise. Every tabloid worth its salt picked up the story and ran with it, embellishing as they went.